I LOVED Tucker Mouse...

When I was a kid one of my favorite books was “The Cricket in Times Square.” It’s a about a cricket named Chester who is from a meadow in Connecticut. When some New Yorkers picnic in his meadow they accidentally pack him up with their lunch and take him back to the city with them. He ends up in Times Square station, befriended by Tucker Mouse and Harry the Cat. Chester plays violin concertos on his cricket-legs. Friendships are forged. There’s lovely music and all sorts of New York moments.

It’s adorable.

I loved it.

I actually loved a mouse. I also loved Reepicheep in the Narnia books and Gus-Gus in the Disney Cinderella movie.

I like literary and cinematic mice.

I do not love the real-live mice in my house. You read that correctly. Mice. Plural. My apartment is under siege.

The mouse in my living room – who failed to appear last night and whose whereabouts now worry me in the extreme – is actually from a family of mice that has moved into the cupboards beneath my kitchen sink. I don’t know where these mice came from, but they apparently came in large numbers. And they're not too picky about where they live - there's no food under my sink. Only Gladware and pots and pans. I have no idea what they're eating since the only one brave enough to come into the rest of the kitchen where the food is, was chased to death by my cats. (Was it death? Is he curled up in some cozy fatal spot in my living room, soon to start reeking? Did he find a mouse-sized equivalent to the door from 'Being John Malkovich'? Is he in another dimension? I refuse to speculate about the possibility he's moved to another room...)

I do know that there's a large number of them, wherever they came from, for whatever reasons.

That statement is so utterly revolting that I have to pause a moment to gather my strength.

I’ve been setting traps. The traps have been catching… things. There’s an actual body count. It’s on the rise.

The landlord has been brought into the situation. The landlord, following what I can only assume is a sort of landlordian circular anti-logic, worries fretfully that since he’s never had mice in this house before, I must have somehow brought them with me because of the cats. That’s right. Because of the cats.

Never mind I've lived here more than 2 years and this is the first time we've had a problem. Never mind that the cats think the mice are the best entertainment they’ve had in years. That my cats haven’t slept in days because they spend all their time chasing the one under the couch (WHERE IS HE?!) and alertly eyeing the kitchen cabinets in hopes that the rustling they hear in there will turn into more little gray playfellows out here.

The cats are clearly the cause of the mice in my house.

I, however, am following my friend Miss Amazing’s advice. I am SENDING THE MICE A MESSAGE. The message is this:

“You may have thought this would be a mouse-friendly house, but you would be wrong. She only likes fictional mice. When it comes to real mice, the crazy shrieking lady in the boots and pajamas means business. She cunningly uses the power of Jiff Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter to lure you to your death. Mice, beware! If the crazy lady doesn’t get you, the fat cats will play with you until you die. Seriously. They played with our cousin for two and a half days and we never saw him again…”

Please pass this on to any rodents in your area. I’m trying to get the word out.